


Part V: The First Impression

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [17]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Gen, Married Couple, Meet-Cute, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yachiru asks Hisana for some assistance. While Rukia is on assignment, she makes a very startling discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part V: The First Impression

**Part V: New Beginnings**

_On the polished surface_

_Of the divine glass,_

_Chaste with flowers of snow._

_–Matsuo Basho_

* * *

* * *

 

**The First Impression**

"Is it done baking?" Yachiru stands haloed in the deep umber shades of dusk. Her innocent wide eyes bore into Hisana, and she impatiently taps her foot against the recently burnished floorboards.

 _So much pent up energy, and so little to do with it_.

A gentle smile lengthens Hisana's lips, and her fingers tangle in Yachiru's tattered cotton-polyester-blend cat costume.

_What, exactly, tore the costume?_

Hisana does not know. Judging from the damp cat paws, she assumes it has something to do with water, and, from the smell of it,  _fish_. Apparently, Yachiru likes to go  _fishing_  dressed as a cat.

 _Because_ … _why the hell not_?

Hisana smiles slyly to herself at the mental image of the small pink-haired girl seated at the edge of a pond, pawing at the water for prey.

How adorable.

How  _horrifying_.

There is no telling what sort of  _organisms_  or  _bacteria_ float in the stagnant ponds of Soul Society. What if she had gotten an infection? What about bug bites? Surely, there must be  _snakes_ that linger around the wetlands, and there is no telling what other dangers may lurk nearby. Suddenly, a deluge of terrifying possibilities courses through Hisana's imagination.

 _Deep breaths_.

Once again, her imagination has gotten the best of her. For some reason, worry is ready and willing to rear its beastly visage. It is always waiting, always within reach, always threatening to bear down on her at the most inopportune times.

Inhaling a deep breath and holding the cold air deep in her lungs, the muscles in her hand twitch. She releases upon feeling a powerful burn, and, with a quick flick of her wrist, she pulls the needle through the fabric. As her needle rebounds, she drops her gaze to the garment.

"Is it done baking  _yet_?" Yachiru sighs, exasperated.

Hisana's eyes flick up. " _Baking_?" she murmurs, not quite comprehending the girl's meaning. How peculiar. She isn't baking anything. To be candid, she has never  _baked_  in her life. And, right then? All she is doing is patching a hole in the girl's costume.

"Yeah," Yachiru says forcefully, pacing a tight circle and eying the thread and needle. She moves like a determined kitten whose body has not quite caught up with its own sense of importance and ability. But, what she lacks in maturity, she makes up with sheer  _bravado_. A metric ton of it. She could bottle and sell it for a profit.

Yachiru is a member of the Eleventh through and through.

Growing dissatisfied with Hisana's lack of  _response_ , Yachiru narrows her eyes and frowns, judging Hisana daft for not understanding her question. "My new playmate! Is it done baking yet?"

Hisana stares at the little Shinigami, not really knowing  _how_  to respond. It is all too apparent that little Yachiru has not had  _The Talk_ , and Hisana is not about to appoint herself to the responsibility. Instead, she murmurs an unconvincing, "Ugh." The noncommittal noise proves to be ineffective filler for thoughts that never come.

"Can I add some ingredients before they're done?" Yachiru chirps with a hopeful look, and she cocks her head to the side. "You got—what?" Her gaze snaps to the ceiling as she performs some rudimentary mathematical formula in her head. When the imaginary calculations prove too taxing, she begins to count on her fingers. "—another ten minutes or so, right?" Convinced of her own logic, Yachiru pivots her weight onto the balls of her heels and wheels around to the door. For a moment, she taps her chin pensively as if Hisana has given her the go-ahead.

After approximately a second's worth of contemplation, an idea seizes Yachiru with such force and with such intensity that, before Hisana can respond, the girl is gone in a flash. The only evidence of her presence is the warm burst of air that blows back Hisana's hair.

_Goodness!_

Taken aback by the child's sheer power, Hisana stares unblinkingly at the door. Instinctively, her right hand slides across her belly. A steady fluttering spreads across her, and she inhales a deep breath. Exhaling, she promises her children that all is well despite the lingering sparks of Yachiru's wave of spiritual pressure. The stirring in her stomach settles with some ado.

Just as Hisana reaches for her composure, a crushing wave of reiatsu hammers her, and the fluttering returns with greater urgency than before. Her own reiatsu flares in response to the agitated spikes of her children's spiritual pressure.

 _Deep breaths_ , she chants calmly to herself.

"Back!" Yachiru roars as she tears through the room in a swirling cloud of glee and excitement. Her small hands ball into tight fists, which she lifts with great pleasure. Turning her arms over, her chubby little fingers unfurl to expose a handful of candy wrappers and a few treats, still glistening wet in her palm.

"I got hungry on the way here," she explains. Her eyes widen and sparkle with a look of childlike innocence—a look that seemingly demands an outpouring of forgiveness.

It isn't as if Hisana really wanted any sweets in the first place. Her diet does not permit such indulgences even if she did.

Smiling benevolently at the meager half-eaten offering, Hisana murmurs a gentle, "How kind," and pulls the needle through the fabric. Just as she is about to make another pass with the thread, she explains to the clearly uncomprehending Yachiru, "Unfortunately, I cannot—"

Before she has the chance to finish, Yachiru bursts toward the door. "I'll bring back s'more!" The child gives a sticky-fingered wave of her hand as if to say,  _'Don't worry. I got this!'_

Riding a tidal wave of excitement and energy, Yachiru vanishes in a plume of spiritual particles.

The pink terror of the Eleventh rips through the large spacious corridors of Kuchiki manor with a mind narrowly fixed on one thought and one thought alone: Operation Candy Miner has commenced.

Hisana shakes her head, chews on her bottom lip, and stares blankly ahead. Her large violet eyes fix the door like laser-beams.  _Are all children like this?_

Oh, gods, she hopes not.

And, with that thought, a panic attack is born.

Are all children with reiatsu like lightning trapped in a bottle? So much energy. So little patience. So much raw, untapped power.

Will  _her_ children be little balls of kinetic energy, shooting every which way without aim or direction? How will she possibly keep up?  _Can_  she keep up? And, worst yet, what if she  _cannot_?

Immediately, her eyes fall to the small girl-sized cat costume that has been distracting her hands and thoughts until  _now_. It is the reason for Yachiru's visit today. Usually, she comes to romp through the large halls with a strange motorized device. Occasionally, she waves her pleasantries as she barrels through the manor. Her hands, feet, and attention, however, are always too busy for a proper greeting or explanation. Today, however, she came with large imploring eyes and a furrowed brow, asking if Hisana knew how to repair her beloved cat costume. Somehow, someway, during her  _adventures_ , the little Vice Captain had ripped the tail clean off, leaving a large tear.

Hisana, being a sucker for large imploring eyes and furrowed brows, agreed to patch the well-loved and -worn costume.

In hindsight, if she had  _refused_ , she would not be suffering the wave of doubt that currently beats over her.

_Breathe._

_Big, deep breaths._

_You have a husband._

_He will know what to do if…._

Suddenly, Hisana wonders  _if_  Byakuya  _will_  Know What to Do. He is an only child, after all. He has younger cousins, sure. But, he never had a hand in  _rearing_  them. Half of the time, he can't be bothered to remember their  _names_.

_Oh, dear._

In an instant, her heart freezes and a chemical-induced winter blankets her, covering her fragile nerves in a fine patina of frost. Ice surges through her veins, chilling her lungs and stealing her breath.

What has she gotten herself into?

She should have been more thorough in her preparations.

There is still time, she tells herself. Time for them to find  _someone_  capable and strong to ensure the children do not perish due to some unstoppable childish whimsy.

Yes, she will need a very skilled nurse, one who has a very particular set of skills.

Without ceremony, Yachiru returns with the sound of thunder crackling on her heels as she enters the room. A cloud of wrappers fall to her feet, cling to her hair, and one particularly audacious square of hot-pink cellophane dangles from her chin.

"I brought some more candy!" she announces with such vigor that Hisana scarcely notices the girl's cheeks ballooning out. Like a particularly greedy chipmunk gorged on acorns, Yachiru has stuffed herself with as many sweets as she could possibly fit in her mouth.

_Do they not feed the child at the Eleventh?_

Even stranger, how did Yachiru manage to return with an armful of empty candy wrappers in such a short amount of time? The Kuchiki estate is set far away from the local candy purveyors, and no one besides Rukia consumes the convections. (And Rukia's stash is expertly hidden.)

It all raises the question: "Yachiru, where did you find  _all_  this candy?"

Taking a large gulp, Yachiru begins to suck her fingers clean of the sugary remnants. "In the closet," she answers happily between licks.

Hisana's eyes trail to the door. "A closet here?"

Yachiru nods.

"At the manor, you mean?"

"Yep, I keep the candies here. They're safer," Yachiru says very matter-of-factly as she scrubs her hands dry on her hakama.

Absently, Hisana gives a shallow nod of her head. "Which closet?" she asks, cautious. Suddenly, her mind conjures visions of her poor unsuspecting husband opening a closet door only to find himself, moments later, buried under a mountain of candy.

If  _that_ happened, Byakuya would be  _livid_. Inconsolably so. And, given her penchant for sweets, Hisana has a sinking feeling that his ire would fall to her.

"A secret one," Yachiru replies in a chirpy voice, "I keep all my treasures there." A silent  _'duh,'_  and a quirk of a brow completes the child's explanation.

Hisana forces a mild smile and swallows her concern.

 _Oh, dear_ , she thinks, wondering just how much or how little her husband knows of this. If she were to make a wager, it would be that Byakuya knows  _nothing_ of Yachiru's predilections, and she hopes he never finds out.

"It should be ready now," Yachiru pipes up as she dumps out a few more wrappers from her pockets.

Hisana gives the little girl a quizzical look.

"My playmate! We've so much to do! We're gonna fight, of course! And, if he's  _worthy_ , I'll show 'em my imaginary friends!" Her voice rises three octaves, and her cadence becomes quick and darting as the effects of a very potent sugar high flood through her system.

" _Imaginary friends_?" Hisana repeats  _slowly_ , hoping her voice will settle Yachiru's pace.

"Yes! I have two of them!"

It does not.

Hisana maintains a polite smile as she nervously surveys the room. Nope. No servants or family lingers nearby. Thankfully.

Dipping her head toward Yachiru, Hisana asks in a whisper, "Are they here now?"

Yachiru tilts her head closer to hear Hisana's words. "Yes," she whispers back and nods excitedly. "They're  _always_  here! We play follow-the-leader! Wanna see?"

Hisana gives the girl a skeptical onceover.

Knowing better but unable to resist her curiosity, she consents.

A nod sends Yachiru flying back a few steps. Centering herself in the middle of the room, the girl stands tall. Her back straightens, her stance squares, and her hand grips her Zanpakutō with spirited gusto.

"Okay, now!" Yachiru announces, poking out her chest and jerking her head high. "Come out and—" Before she can get all the words out, a low rolling voice cuts Yachiru's excitement asunder.

"You will  _not_ release your Zanpakutō in my wife's presence." The baritone rushes into the room before its possessor can step through the door, but its tenor is unmistakable. Both Hisana and Yachiru turn to the door with eager stares and baited breath, waiting for confirmation.

Byakuya enters the room.

A look of quiet horror blackens his face, and, with a hardened stare, he stays the little girl's wild exuberance. For added security, he pins her with a burst of reiatsu that would render lesser men witless.

Yachiru, however, responds with a wide toothy grin and a hearty giggle. "Byakki!" Without warning, she shoots forward and perches on his broad shoulders. "So serious, Byakki! Don't you wanna see my imaginary friends, too?" she says, drawing out the last syllable in a lilting plea.

A wry glint burns in Hisana's gaze as she observes the pair. She tries mightily to smother the chuckle that tickles the back of her throat, and, to her credit, she is  _mostly_ successful in her endeavor. Her lips, however, twist into a playful grin. To see her husband so ruffled is a rare sight, one that amuses her more than she would care to admit. It is even rarer to find a soul so willfully immune to his icy austerity.

"If they are imaginary, then I will not be able to see them. Will I?" Byakuya growls, fixing Yachiru with a glare.

Catching Hisana's attention, Yachiru gives Hisana a knowing wink and mouths the words: ' _I will show you my friends later.'_

Hisana's grin thins into a conciliatory smile. She can't help herself, but she tries her best not to appear encouraging. For her husband's sake.

"What was that?" Byakuya's voice is sharp and brisk as he addresses Yachiru.

"What was what?" Yachiru parrots back at him, feigning confusion with wide-eyed panache.

His stare hardens. "I  _can_ see you when you speak."

She gives him a playful smile and stares, dumbfounded. "Huh?" she giggles.

His eyes narrow. "You and your mischief have no business with my wife."

"So grumpy, grumpy, grumpy." She sighs. Making a dissatisfied "tsk, tsk" sound with her tongue, Yachiru vanishes, not leaving the slightest trace in her absence.

Once Hurricane Yachiru whirls out of the room, Hisana turns her gaze to her husband. He appears slightly perturbed, slightly appalled, and mostly aggravated. Hoping to ease his nerves, Hisana begins in a gentle voice, "She is very strong."

When he does not respond, she continues, "She kept me company all day." Her hands work the needle through the coarse fabric while she speaks the words.

Still, her husband watches the door with an unbreakable intensity. He is wary of Yachiru, and quite mindful of the fact that she is an expert at breaking and entering. Nothing is ever secure.

Hisana waits patiently until it becomes painfully clear that he has not heard her. Not a single word. His attention is completely and totally fixed on the door.

She presses on, undeterred. It is the only way. "She told me all about the Eleventh." Her voice fills the room. Its sweet melody, however, is quickly squashed by the silence, dark and oppressive, that festers between them.

She waits, hopeful. He will come around, she tells herself. He always does.

Once he is satisfied that Yachiru is gone, Byakuya turns to her. A deep frown bends the corners of his lips down. Even deeper wrinkles crease his forehead. "She should remain there. Permanently."

Hisana shakes her head. "You take your share of amusement from  _her and her mischief_." It is true. While Byakuya would never admit it with  _words_ , she can see that her husband sees something in Yachiru that reminds him of his own salad days.

His lips part, but the words do not come. Instead, his gaze drifts to the floor. It is a quiet concession—an action of docile defeat—and he lets the point settle between them amid the silence that comes on its heels.

After a few moments, he moves to the doors leading to the garden. Gently, he pulls one of the panels back, allowing the gentle spring air to waft into the room.

Turning, he tilts his head to view his wife. His attention reflexively falls to the rumpled cat costume pooling across Hisana's lap. Ever observant and ever suspicious, he asks the obvious question, "What is  _that_?"

He already knows the answer.

She already knows that he already knows the answer.

And, for a moment there, she was certain his mood had calmed. Such, however, is not the case. The harsh discordant inflection on the last syllable dashes any illusion that his agitation has quelled.

Meekly, Hisana obliges his scrutinizing gaze. "One of her outfits. She seems dearly attached to it."

In a clean motion, Hisana unfurls the material to expose the patched garment, tail and all. She smiles at her work. It isn't  _perfect_ , but it will do.

"Not too attached," he huffs before reflexively eying the door.

Hisana bows her head. "I think she will return for it tomorrow."

"Does she disturb you frequently?" He interrupts before she has a time to finish her statement.

What has him in such a mood? she wonders. Byakuya usually ignores Yachiru's childish games and antics. Sometimes, Yachiru pushes him off kilter, but he never lingers over the interactions. He never lets it needle him.

No, there is something else that perturbs him. Something dark furrows his brow, curves his lips into a frown, and narrows his gaze. He is keeping something trapped deep inside. She can almost sense the words as he swallows them back and locks them away deep in the pit of his heart.

What could be worrying him?

Folding the garment carefully in her lap, Hisana plays along, pretending not to notice his foul mood. He will come around, she tells herself. She shouldn't pry. When he is ready, he will confide in her.

"No, milord. She does not disturb me at all."

It is truth, plain and simple. But, then, again, they really aren't talking about Yachiru. Are they?

Staring into the garden, he issues her a harsh assurance, "Our children shall be better behaved."

A tense pause blankets the room.

_Is that so?_

Hisana holds back a chuckle. "Will they?" she asks, teasingly.

It is a diversion, and she hopes he bites. She would do anything to ease his mind. Anything at all. Anything, that is, but ask.

He lifts his head. His brows rise. "Naturally." He is very matter-of-fact, very confident. He is almost as confident as Yachiru.

_Almost._

A cunning look brightens her eyes, her lips split into a wide smile, and her brows pop up. It is too much to resist. It is just too tempting. He has opened the proverbial door, and she is more than willing to capitalize on his misstep. "Was milord well behaved as a boy?"

She knows the answer to the question. More importantly, she knows that  _he_  knows the answer to the question, and it is a firm  _NO_.

No, he was  _not_  well behaved. In fact, he was  _notoriously_  ill behaved. The rumors, the innuendo, and the  _news clippings_  all serve as powerful  _evidence_ of his past misdeeds. There are  _stories_  upon  _stories_  of his hotheaded caprice.

Now that she thinks better of it, she should probably ask Ukitake about those stories. She should at least know what is in  _store_  for her as a mother.

Wordlessly, Byakuya lowers his head and hides his eyes from her. His wry smile, however, she sees with great clarity.

_Oh, what have I gotten myself into?_

Thoughts of demon children with untold amounts of raw power, committing untoward acts, barrel through her head.

What has she gotten herself into, indeed?

"Come, let us take a stroll." She exhales a deep breath and places the costume beside her knee.

Byakuya's eyes widen, betraying his hesitation. The look of tongue-tied refusal washes over his face, relaxing the creases from his forehead. Desperately, he wishes to deny her the small pleasure. Worry glistens in his eyes, and his heart flutters at the wave of unpleasant thoughts that breaks over him.

All it takes is a small gesture for his crumbling resolve to falter.

Hisana lifts her arm, opens her palm, and, with a tender glance, beseeches him to come to her aid.

He falls for her ploy hook, line, and sinker.

In an instant, his hand wraps around hers, and he helps her up with the gentleness ordinarily reserved for precious family heirlooms. His solemn refusal turns into a half-hearted, "Are you certain?"

He wouldn't have broken so easily if he, too, wasn't in search of a distraction. Or, so, she tells herself.

She glances up at him. Her eyes meet his, and a warm smile spreads across her face. "Of course, milord." She has never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

A stroll through the spring garden is just the thing  _they_  need.

Wordlessly, the two begin their way along a wandering footpath. The direction is set—forward they go. To where or for how long? Fate will decide.

* * *

High atop a strange wooden pole, Rukia surveys the world around her, starting with her perch. The long wooden pole extends from the ground, and attached from the wood are long, thin cords that run to another pole. A low frequency current imbues her, rattles around her bones, and sets the fine hair on her arms on edge. There is static. It feels like she is on the cusp of an electrical storm.

 _Must be those cords_.  _Probably shouldn't stay here for long,_ she thinks, then, glances skyward.

A fading sun paints the sky in the soft shades of pink and orange, and the World of the Living begins its nocturnal preparations. Streetlights begin to switch on; their dim yellow effulgence grows more intense with time as the bulbs warm up. Cars line the streets in great numbers as the living rush to their homes. Conversation begins to pick up as people go about their evening constitutionals, blissfully unaware of the danger that lurks ever present just below the surface.

Rukia ignores the strange motorized machines buzzing beneath her. She pays no heed to the conversations. She even manages to repress a shudder as a wind blows cold against her cheek and plays in her hair. Instead, she shoves all the external stimuli from her focus as soon as she spots a hell butterfly.

In a strange, darting direction, it flutters down, where it settles on her middle finger tip.

The world recedes into the background. The brilliant colors of dusk go to black. The chirping of swallows go silent. Indeed, her concentration is impenetrable as she pays close attention to the news the butterfly bears.

"I see," she murmurs to herself.

She can sense it immediately. It is strong. Inordinately strong.

At great speeds, she goes singing through the air, closing in on its trail. Feeling a quick shift, she darts inside a building through an open window. Quick footwork and even quicker reflexes land her on a small wooden desk. Her muscles rebound from the sudden change in speeds, and she straightens her back before hopping off the desk.

A cursory glance tells her everything that she needs to know about her current environment. It's a boy's bedroom, and, judging by the papers and thick books strewn across the desk that she's just dismounted, the boy is an adolescent.

Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees said schoolboy just on the boundary of her periphery. He looks slightly stricken. It's probably a difficult school assignment. Or relational issues. Who cares, really? It's not like she's paid to find out.

He is of little consequence, anyway.

She continues forward, eyes set on finding the disruption. It is right around here. She can almost  _taste_  it. It's odor is strong, and her hair is almost standing on end from the interference that the creature provokes.

It is going to be a beast. A sizable one. Maybe this time it will take  _skill_  to fell it. The prospect evokes a sensation of excitement as she nears a window.

"Wha—?"

It's the boy.

Again, who cares?

She crosses the floor with greater purpose than before. "It's near," she murmurs, eyes fixing the window.

Before she has the chance to react, her face meets the ground.

_What the hell just happened?_

"It's near?" the boy exclaims, looming over her. Irate, he jabs the air in front of his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

In wide-eyed horror, Rukia stares up at him. His shadow is long, veiling much of his face. All she can see is the light glinting in his eyes. What the hell, indeed. Can he really see her? Has she lost her mind? More importantly,  _who_  or  _what_  is  _this kid?_  The living aren't supposed to be able to see, much less  _interact with_ , Shinigami.

She must be losing it. Too many nights out in the field. It'll do it to a person. Plus, she's just coming off a cold. Maybe it's the Fourth's cold medicine? Did she overdose? These do seem like hallucinations.

Somewhere between the kid's angry diatribe and accusations of burglary, she manages to pull herself together long enough to ask the question tearing through her brain: "You can see me?"

The boy's face deflates as if she has asked the dumbest question imaginable. "Huh?"

She covers with a brusque, "I mean, did you just kick me?" This proves to be an even dumber inquiry, judging from the boy's expression.

"Yeah, I can see you." He leaves off the pejorative that is clearly jumping up and down on his tongue.

For that, at least, she is grateful as she peels herself off the floor. Before she has a chance to make a bigger spectacle of herself, a strangely familiar reiatsu bursts into the room.

 _'Captain Shiba?'_  She stops herself just in time to keep from blurting out his name.

She blinks. Once, twice, thrice. Nope. No amount of blinking is going to clear the sight from her eyes. It  _is_  Captain Shiba. Except it  _isn't_. Can't be. Captain Shiba is dead.

Yet, there he is. His patented kinetic energy and dialect are right there on display. No one else could be…so… _much_. Not the way that Captain Shiba was…er… _is_.

He traded in the Shihakushō and Captain's haori for a brightly colored striped shirt, close-fitting black pants, and a strange white jacket. And, apparently, he's the head of house instead of head of the Tenth.

Swift panic sets in.

Gods, how she hopes he doesn't see her. Prays he doesn't recognize her. Hopes to the heavens that he  _can't_  see her.

All that worry, however, is quickly realized when the bantering ceases, and the boy flings his arm and attention in her direction.

What did the boy say? She hasn't the slightest idea. All she can process is the exact moment that she feels Captain Shiba's stare. Stupidly, her eyes flick up just in time to meet his.

If she hadn't been 100% certain before, she is now.

She is also equally as certain that he remembers her.

Curse her luck. What to do now? Acknowledge him like a proper Shinigami? Ignore him? Pretend she doesn't recognize him?

Her breath catches in her chest, but she doesn't speak a word. She can't physically bring herself to do it. Her brain misfires, keeping her fears locked behind sealed lips.

"Look at what?" Captain Shiba asks, scratching the side of his cheek.

_Of course, play dumb. Good move, Captain._

Nodding, Rukia exhales a deep breath.

Frantic, the boy continues. His arms flail. His cadence quickens. He becomes more agitated as Captain Shiba remains completely oblivious.

Reaching for her composure, Rukia tucks her chin to her neck and pins the boy with a stare. "It's useless." Her voice is low, calm. "He can't see me. No ordinary man can."

This grabs the boy's attention, yanking it to her and her alone. He stares at her, slack-jawed and exasperated.

"I'm a Shinigami."


End file.
